A Guiding Light
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: With John captured, can Sherlock find him? Does it really matter if the sun revolves around the earth or the earth round the sun?


A Guiding Light

**A/N: A random mystery inspired by the following quote from the series. I would appreciate feedback about whether the events and deductions make sense.**

_'Oh, hell! What does that matter?! So we go around the sun! If we went around the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference!_" S.H. in TGG

* * *

Sweat and blood mixed with the grime and dust in London's alley. Fast-paced images of the fight rocked the air– a cyclone of flying fists, blunted grunts, and scuffling shoes. Suddenly, the sickening thuds and the gritty scenes of combat blurred at the edges and faded into a shroud of darkness, much like the screen on TV as it turns off.

John's body went limp and he tumbled into a puddle of limbs on the gravelled street where he'd been chasing after a gang of dangerous smugglers. Time, the movement of light particles along wavelengths of infinite dimensions, ceased to exist for the unfortunate doctor. It was not a very good day for him. Then again, this wasn't the first time he'd had suffered violence at the hands of his fan writers…

Consciousness crept back into John's body some time later. He flexed his toes and then his fingers. _Present and working_. He opened his eyes. _Nothing_. A momentary panic as nightmares of blindness and optic nerve damage crossed his thoughts. Then he realised it was night and he was in some sort of unlit rustic prison.

The shadows of the walls taunted him as he shifted his weight and felt the grating of the wooden chair legs against solid flooring, _cement_, judging by the particular sounds that met his ears. He was trussed to the chair so that he could wiggle his fingers but otherwise found his movements rather restricted. Feet bound. Chest wound round with rope like a spool of thread.

He wondered where he was. _A warehouse. A basement_. John hadn't the faintest.

Alerted to John's increasing mental awareness, two burly thugs shone a torch on their captive. "Ah, I see you're finally coming round to join in the fun. Course, you mightn't be so lively now that you're all tied up." The larger of the men rubbed the stubble on his chin and grinned evilly at his own joke.

John tilted his head and peered up at the two leering faces staring down through a trap door of sorts. When their roving torchlight wasn't blinding him, he noticed clear skies decorated by a stunning array of twinkling stars behind them. "Where am I? What do you want?" he shouted up to the two henchmen.

A low rumble echoed from the larger bloke. His companion, also of considerable bulk but questionable brains, answered. "Can't tell you where. Might have to kill ya then." He snickered at the thought.

"Why do you want me?" John persisted.

"Oh, it's not that we want you. We could care less whether you were dead or alive," the captures laughed maliciously. "In fact, you'd be a whole lot less work to watch over if you were dead. Isn't that right, Jed?" the smaller thug turned to his companion.

"Yea, but we have to keep him alive until the boss gets here, Jake," the big one whined.

"The boss?" John attempted to distract them as he struggled with his bonds.

"Oh don't you worry that little, fluffy blond head of yours," Jed replied. "You'll meet him soon enough."

With those ominous words the door above his head slammed shut and John found himself in darkness once more. A hint of hay and manure drifted round him. He thought he could hear crickets faintly in the distance. Given the clarity of the night sky he figured he must be somewhere rural. Somewhere in the country. The lack of light pollution and the obvious odours hinted at perhaps an old dairy farm. He strained and attempted to find a weak spot in his bonds but after a futile hour decided to save his energy for a more likely escape at a future opportunity.

John tried to remember the latest case they'd been working on. His mind wandered over the fight. What did they want with him? Why would a lowly ex-army doctor matter to a band of international smugglers? He nodded off with a million questions swimming in a pool of worry round his head.

~oooo~

Thunk! John awoke to the sudden jarring of the overhead trap door. "I see you're awake, John," a new face, one that John failed to recognise, leaned over the edge of the opening. "Got something for you to do for us…. If you ever want to see your friend, Sherlock, alive again." He added as a small incentive.

"And why should I do anything for you? Sherlock is safe, working with the police right now. In fact, he most likely will be showing up with them any moment." John gave a brave façade and spoke with the confidence of a trained soldier.

"Oh, that's funny, you little snit!" the new face jeered. "No, I say you will do exactly what we want you to do. Your friend, if you can call a sociopath such, hasn't a clue as to your whereabouts. My men who are watching him right now, tell me he seems to be a bit lost on this one." He gave a patronizing frown. "Too bad… for you."

John kept a blank face. He wondered if the man was bluffing or really did have his friend under surveillance. If he did, that would put Sherlock in a tidy mess. "I don't believe you."

"Oh really, well look at this. Perhaps this will convince you." The new face, by now John figured this to be the boss, descended a ladder and hopped down next to John. "See?" Pictures of Sherlock in the flat; pictures of Sherlock in a taxi; pictures of Sherlock walking down the street; even a picture of Sherlock meeting with Lestrade, flashed across the mobile's screen. "You see, my men are keeping a close eye on your friend. If you don't comply with our little request, well…" he shrugged his shoulders in mock helplessness, "I might just have to order one of them to shoot him. Get the picture?"

John didn't reply. He understood the threat perfectly. "What do you want me to do?" he growled from between gritted teeth. His hands balled themselves into white-knuckled fists under his restraints.

"Oh, nothing too difficult," the boss shrugged his shoulders with a wan smile. "Just write a little note to your friend. Inform him that he must stop his investigations of our gang. We wouldn't want to attract the attention of the law, you know." The boss stooped to eye level with the bound-up prisoner before him. "Of course, if he doesn't, we might be able to distract him with a new homicide case…"

"Why not just have me call him or email him a video?" John stalled.

"Tsk, tsk," the boss clucked. "We rather thought an old-fashioned letter would be more" - he paused a moment searching for the right word, "more, shall we say, elegant. Electronic communication can be so impersonal these days. There's always that nasty chance of electronic tracing and all that nonsense. So much cleaner to give a handwritten warning." He shook his head and turned to leave. "I trust you won't have any difficulty in complying with such a minor request."

The boss's henchman, Jed, produced a ballpoint pen and a sheet of blank paper for John. Holding them out to him, he ordered, "write."

John gave raised an eyebrow and looked up at his captors. "Seriously! You expect me to write with my hands tied? Besides, I can't write down here in the dark. Take me outside. I'll be able to write better with the light from the moon."

The two burly guards looked at each and then turned to their boss. He gave an impatient shrug. "Fine. Untied him but cuff him to that pipe just outside."

Once their prisoner was resituated outside, still under the watchful eye of his captures, he was given a pad of paper on a clipboard with a ballpoint pen to compose his letter. "Now, you write exactly what I say, don't need you adding in any of your little secret codes or something like that," the boss looked suspiciously at John.

John nodded without expression and stared up at the starry night sky. Truly it was a beautiful evening. The night was clear and the inky blackness of their remote location made the stars shine all the brighter. They twinkled like diamonds against a black velvet curtain. It reminded him of his days as boy, star gazing in his backyard with his father. He could still pick out Polaris, Cassiopeia, Orion, and Mintaka. They winked back at him like old friends.

"Hey, quit your daydreaming! You're not out here to admire the stars. I said write. Now write!"

The boss dictated the words while John wrote them down. "Wait, just a minute! What's the matter with you guys?" John scribbled with his pen in an attempt to get the ink flowing again. "You gave me a bad pen. How am I supposed to write a proper letter without a decent pen?"

"Go find 'our guest' another pen," the boss grumbled.

"Yes, boss," the two replied in unison.

"No, just one of you need look for another pen, you fools! The other stays here to guard the prisoner." The boss snarled at his men's incompetence then turned back to John. "Write again while he searches for another pen."

"I'll try," John gave a helpless shrug. He made a few more circular scribbles then proceeded with frequent pauses to shake the ink down in the pen, utilising the delays to soak in the splendour of the glittering panorama before him. At last, Jake returned with a new pen. Felt tipped. This one seemed to work a bit better and John finished writing the last of the dictated threatening note to Sherlock.

"Now sign it." The boss concluded.

"Why? He'll know it's from me by my handwriting."

"Humour me," the boss's patience was wearing thin.

"If I sign it, I should probably date it too," he shot back. "Date and time – makes it more authentic. Let's my friend know the urgency of the situation too."

"Sure, whatever. Sign and date it then."

"You'll have to tell me the date and time then," John replied innocently. I don't have a clue how long I was unconscious since you've relieved me of my mobile."

"May seventh. Nine fifty four. There. Happy?" the leader of his captors snarled.

John dutifully signed his note and handed it to the boss who quickly read it over and then folded it up. "I'll be sure he gets it." He smiled. Placing the letter in his suit pocket, he called out, "Boys, take him back down in the hole and tie him up."

From his cramped and musty quarters, John heard the roar of the engine from the Mercedes as the crime boss drove off. He wondered if Sherlock would get his message. He hoped his genius friend had not deleted everything he'd learned about astronomy from that case with the fake painting and the supernova.

~oooo~

It was some time later that John heard the welcome sound of police sirens and soon a squad of law enforcement officers had swarmed and taken over the place. His two guards were now in handcuffs.

"John!" The familiar voice called. The doctor could detect an unusual quiver and high pitch in his friend's cry. His own heart beat faster.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," he called back. "Well, I'll be fine once you get these bloody ropes off me."

The lean form of his friend clamoured down the ladder and rapidly loosed him from his bonds. Later, safely ensconced within their flat, John turned to his friend who was coiled rather protectively round him. "Sherlock?"

"Uh-huh?" came the languid reply.

"I have to confess. I wasn't sure you'd get my message. You know, with your whole, 'what does it matter if the sun goes round the earth' speech."

Sherlock smiled. "But it does matter the position of the stars in the sky. At first, I did wonder about all those obviously deliberate scribbles and dots. Clearly you were pretending that the pen was bad yet when I examined the writing closely I could see the ink flowed perfectly."

"Yes, clever of you," John smiled in admiration as his friend shared his deductions. "How'd you know the marks represented stars?"

"The letter was composed, and delivered, at night. I knew the crime boss would not want to delay the message. He needed me to cease my investigation quickly. Even a day more and I could prove fatal to his operations."

John nodded.

Sherlock continued. "What message would you secretly want to communicate? Clearly, your location. Your marks could possibly have been a code of sorts, spelling out your address; but, more likely, you did not know your place of captivity. How else can one determine location? The stars. Giving me the time when you wrote the letter confirmed my suspicions. Your scribbles and dots formed a sky-map. After I figured that bit, it was a matter of plotting in the stars and plugging the time into an app to find the latitude and longitude coordinates."

"Astronomy – once again solves the case," John smiled mischievously.

"Still doesn't matter that the earth revolves around the sun – or is it the sun round the earth?" Sherlock sniffed. His eyes twinkled and a smile teased at the corners of his mouth though. His own guiding light, his North Star, was back


End file.
